


The Son, The Poet, The Brother

by r1nn1e



Series: In Which I Write DSMP [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angry TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Angst, Destruction of L'Manberg | L'Manburg on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exile Arc on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Families of Choice, Gen, Ghostbur, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, L'Manberg | L'Manburg on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Toby Smith | Tubbo, Not a ship fic u fucks :), Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), SMP Live and SMP Earth existed before DSMP, Sad Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Sad and Angry TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur was Techno’s poet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 02:21:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30014661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1nn1e/pseuds/r1nn1e
Summary: Grief is different for everyone.A “family” falls apart.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: In Which I Write DSMP [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2207970
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	The Son, The Poet, The Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Wilbur’s death has been hard for some people to accept.

It hit Phil slow.  
Slower than the draw of his sword out of his son’s lifeless body. 

It didn’t hit him when he helped get rid of the withers that were plaguing the rubble of what was once L’manburg, and it didn’t hit him while he helped rebuild over the crater. It didn’t hit him when he went and saw Tommy at Logstedshire, and it didn’t hit him when he helped Techno with the turtle farm. 

He was fine, living each day in the moment, meeting everyone he had only heard about in letters, building farms, and helping people. But Tubbo broke that peace. Tubbo made him stop moving. 

The ankle bracelet was heavy. It made a loud clanking sound with each step he took in his small house. The eight-meter by eight-meter space he had on each floor had been thoroughly walked over by the time night fell on the first day of his house arrest. His bones, light and made for flying, ached as he lugged around the metal keeping him inside, but his body craved the movement. Only when the sun set did he finally sit down and rest. 

His eyes closed, and he let out a breath. The constant flow of ignoring everything had stopped. Without anything to distract him, life caught up. 

Ghostbur’s blue sitting on a chest, not quite put away, the letters Wilbur had written scattered across the table in the middle of the room, the sword, haunting his mind from the ender chest against the wall. 

The grief washed over him in that moment. He was exhausted. His shoulders sagged and his breaths turned shaky. 

He missed his son. Techno had been around, they were best friends for fucks sake, but his boy was gone. Tommy was still kicking around somewhere, but he only had one son. Wilbur was his child. He had watched him take his first steps, helped him learn to shoot a bow, and even after being away for a few years, he was still his little Wilbur while he begged Phil to kill him. 

Phil shut his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms over them, hoping the pressure of his hands could stop the headache he was getting from the tears that had started flowing. 

Phils grief hit him slowly, when he was alone for the first time in weeks. His grief came in the form of tears and the wish that, in death, his son had found peace. 

—

It hit Techno in waves. There was never a tsunami, but instead the guilt would sway him slightly before pulling back out to sea. 

Wilbur had given him a place to stay, friends to make, and a reason to fight. Techno had followed Wilburs wishes, always being the one for executing rather than planning, and even though he hadn’t been through every war and battle with him, they were each other's little soldier. Wilbur was Technos poet, spinning master plots wrapped with elegant words, talking his way out of any situation, leading armies and countries with his speeches and praises. But Wilburs words got the best of him. 

He spoke of dark thoughts and darker plots. He told of the conversations he had with Dream. He wove tales of how L’manburg once was, and how it could no longer be. And Techno grieved for his poet even before he sung his last tune to his fathers blade through his chest. 

Techno had mourned his poet's soul when he talked about the stacks of TNT below his beloved symphony. He knew he couldn’t save him, so he mourned and planned for his revenge on the country that drove his friends to give up everything for a fresh start. 

He never grieved for long. He wouldn’t let himself. The ever moving Technoblade fled the scene of his act of war and had already settled before he let himself grieve once more. 

He shed a tear when Ghostbur led his executioners to his house, but he did not long for his lost partner or chaos. Only when he returned to see a boy, beaten and bruised with burns along his body did he mourn again. He mourned for the boy who took Tommy under his wing despite being no more than a teenager himself, and raised him like a brother. He wished peace for the man that had worked for a place where his best friend could live away from harm. He had composed himself by the time Tommy had woken up the next day. 

The final time he mourned for his poet was when he was all alone. Tommy had gone and Phil was busy. He set down his tools, shrugged off his armour, and found himself in front of a mirror. In himself he saw his poet. In the words he spoke to Tommy when he showed him his master plan, in the alliance he formed with the psychopath trying to play god, in the slump in his shoulders and the tiredness in his eyes. Wilbur was everywhere in him. He had made a mark on Technos soul that made him remember his mortality. His poet was dead, but his sonnets and stories lived on in everyone.

—

It hit Tommy hard. As fast and as sharp as the arrow that took his first life. 

He fought to hold his feelings back as he helped clean up the aftermath of Technos betrayal, but as soon as it was over, he cried. 

He lost the man who had raised him, who helped him start a country. He lost his best friend who had been by his side since the start. He lost his big brother, in everything but blood, who he watched dissolve into a mess of insecurity and paranoia. 

He cried himself out that night and pledged that it would be the last time. 

He held himself to that promise. He never shed another tear for his Wilby, but he wasn’t out of mourning. He grieved in a different way. In working on picking up where Wilbur left off. 

Tommy’s greif followed him to Logstedshire in the form of Ghostbur. He was kind. He tried to cheer him up, he helped build a place for Tommy to sleep and stay dry. But Tommy was conflicted. 

It had been a quiet day, Ghostbur was fiddling with his sweater and rattling off about whatever he could remember from the day. Tommy responded with short, mundane answers until finally, “I don’t want to make anyone upset,” Ghostbur says, and Tommy loses it. 

“You lost that chance when you decided to fuck everything up and die. You were selfish and you took my brother. You took away my big brother and now you prance around here pretending that everything is ok and that everyone is better now that Wilbur is gone—“ Tommy’s chest heaves. 

“You think that you can walk in here and hope to fill the position of role model sibling when you are nothing like him.” 

“You will never be Wilbur. You will never be my brother.” 

Tommy walks forward on shaky legs. He swings. 

“FUCK OFF” 

His fist passes right through Ghostburs body. He swings again and almost lands himself face first on the dirt. 

“WHY CAN’T I HIT YOU?” he screams. 

Tommy looks around frantically. He needs to get his anger out somehow. He picks up a stick from the ground and whips it at Ghostbur's translucent body. 

Surprisingly, it hits. It bounces off of the ghost weakly. Tommy doesn’t think about why objects could hurt him but Tommy’s own hand never made contact. 

He throws everything he can find at Ghostbur who has yet to move. He stands there with a sad smile on his face. 

“If hitting me helps you deal with losing your big brother, we can sit here for hours Toms,” the nickname stung, only Wilbur called him that. “I want everyone to be happy. If taking your feelings out on something that can’t die twice will help you grieve, I will be your punching bag.” 

It reminded Tommy of Wilbur. Not the Wilbur dead set on blowing up his former home or ordering Tommy around like a worker rather than a friend, but the Wilbur that had raised Tommy. The Wilbur that led a nation with kindness. His Wilby. 

But his Wilby was gone, and soon there was a handful of blue dye being offered to him as he struggled to stand back up. 

He was still mad, but Ghostbur didn’t deserve that anger. 

His anger was reserved for the man responsible for taking his brother's life. Wilbur himself.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter https://mobile.twitter.com/sbeeitwt


End file.
